Poems (E. L. F.)/Oh, tell me not of other days!

by E. L. F.

OH, TELL. ME NOT OF OTHER DAYS!

On, tell me not of other days!
 For, oh! the voiceless past
But mirrors forth a thousand rays
 Of brightness overcast.

The sunny days that fleeted by
 When the heart was young in grief—
These are the days that memory
 Brings back in strong relief.

The brightening hope that darker grew
 Beneath the frown of care;
The joyous tone that only knew
 An echo in despair;

The beaming smile that seemed to tell
 Of future days of joy,—
Long hushed hath been 'neath the blighting spell
 Of death's dark and chill alloy.

And the fairy dream of childhood's hour,
 That o'er my spirit passed,
Was all too bright for the chilling power
 Of life's enduring blast.

Then tell me not of other years,
 For I would fain forget
The joys and woes, the smiles and tears,
 That cling to memory yet.

THE FORGET-ME-NOT.

The spirit of the flowers one day
A-botanising went, folk say,
And stumbling o'er a lonely flower,
No habitant of lady's bower—
A tiny weed of palest blue,
Celestial nature's fairest hue;
While spiral stem, and leaves all green,
Of colour faint as childhood's dream,
Support the flower, in beauty grown,
Thus blooming in a wild alone;}—
And, conning o'er some name to bless
This tiny gem of loveliness,
The zephyring breeze the sound had caught,
And murmuring breathed—Forget-me-not.